


Periphery

by Torpor



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torpor/pseuds/Torpor
Summary: A collection of short stories exploring the peripheral events of Fire Emblem: Three Houses that I won't have time to explore within the main body of my project.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra, Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd/Patricia, Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius/Original female character
Kudos: 4





	Periphery

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for months, so I figured now was as good a time to post it as any, since I decided to restart the main fic. This first chapter deals with the aftermath of Glenn's death, though there might be another later from Rodrigue's perspective. The next one will deal with Lambert and Patricia. If you're here for the Edel angst, that one's probably gonna be #3. 
> 
> Please let me know how I'm doing, it helps me improve and keep you entertained. Stay safe out there.  
> -Bard

She raised her fist hesitantly, the two glasses and bottle in her hand clinking softly in the drafty hallway. She had always known her place in life. She grew up knowing it. She, a lady of good breeding and esteem, was to always mind her manners and curtsey when those above her station walked by; but sometimes one had to forget propriety to do the right thing. She knocked on the door and waited. It was silent; so, so silent. Silent enough that she almost worried, but as she held her breath and counted the seconds, she heard what she had hoped for. 

“Enter.”

She did as she was told and entered the Duke’s drawing room. He sat at his desk, his head resting in his hands. On the desk was the terrible letter they’d received earlier that day; the one that told them about what had transpired two days prior, in Duscur. 

She had been there when Glenn was born. She’d been the one to dab sweat from Lady Helena’s brow and hold her hand. It had been her that placed the babe; still pink and helpless into his father’s arms. She did the same the day Felix was born, but that time, the sorrow of Helena’s death overshadowed the joy of the day. And now, nineteen years after Glenn had come into the world, he was...

If anything happens to me, promise me you’ll take care of them, Rowena. Rodrigue is a good man, but he is awful at taking care of himself. He’d forget to eat if I didn’t remind him. 

She’d promised her Lady, her dearest friend. She had sworn an oath that she would see to the care of the children and the man; and so she would. 

“Good evening, Rowena. It’s not like you to call on me so late.” His voice sounded frail, as though he were just clinging to his pride. She’d been sure to raise the boys to be more outspoken than their father. She’d ensured they knew they could come to her, confide in her. She’d spent the past two hours holding poor, darling Felix; soothing him as he sobbed into her apron. She was exhausted. She wanted to sob. But… what she wanted didn’t matter all that much. 

“I got Felix down for the night, Milord,” she said, finally moving from her place by the door to place the glasses and bourbon down on the desk. He looked at them for a long moment before he met her eyes; a soft, sad smile spreading over his face. 

“Thank you. Why don’t you have a seat? Goddess knows you’ve earned it; today, of all days.” 

She hummed and settled into the chair on the other side of the desk, watching as he poured them both a drink. They clinked their glasses without a word, and they each drained them. Rowena hissed quietly as the whiskey burned, but soon the sensation mellowed into a pleasant warmth in her stomach and chest. She watched silently as Rodrigue poured himself another drink and threw it back with the same enthusiasm. She wouldn’t stop him if he wanted to drown himself in it tonight. They could worry about what was proper and healthy tomorrow.

“Another?” Rodrigue held the bottle up, and she nodded. She too wanted to forget for a time. She sipped more slowly, admiring the deep amber color of the whiskey, and the prisms in her glass when the light hit the facets just right. She startled at the feeling of a gloved finger on her cheek, but soon realized that he’d wiped away a stray tear that had fallen without her knowledge or permission. He said nothing, but placed his hand over hers instead and redirected his gaze towards the fire. 

She studied him for a long moment and the changes time brought struck her. When they had been younger, he was effortlessly handsome and bright eyed; now he was so tired and heartbroken that she would almost fail to recognize him if they’d spent long years apart. Time had worn creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, his skin was sallow and his eyes dim. She wondered if she looked as faded and weary as he, if he felt as hollowed out and cold inside as she did. She swivelled in her chair and placed her other hand over his, cradling it between her palms. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came, so she closed it once more, her unspoken words dangling between them in a web of frustration and grief. 

Rodrigue slipped his fingers between hers and squeezed her hand before he pulled away, choosing to stand before the fire instead. She followed him, with little else to contribute to the moment besides her presence. If she were to be honest, she just didn’t want to be alone. She needed to feel close to someone, and it would be unfair to lay that need at Felix’s feet. He was only a boy, and needed them to be there for him, not the other way around. It seemed Rodrigue felt much the same, because he reached out and took her by the hand once more. 

“I don’t know what to do.” He wasn’t really talking to her. It was a statement, more or less, meant for himself. 

She tugged him towards her on instinct, as she would a child, and she pulled him down to rest against her shoulder. He was tense for a long moment, but soon he wrapped both arms around her and held her tightly, his face buried against her neck as he shook. They swayed back and forth, squeezing each other in the soft glow of the fire. They didn’t cry, but just being together in such a simple way helped. She stroked his hair and pressed her lips to his temple, breathing in the smell of tobacco and leather. There were so many things to say, but neither of them had ever been good at speaking them. 

“I feel as though I’ve never properly thanked you for being here for us. You didn’t have to stay after Helena passed,” Rodrigue said. His voice was thick and tense, but his eyes were dry when he straightened. She found herself leaning into his touch when he cupped her cheek, and she realized then that it had been a very long time since she had been touched in such a way. 

“I made a promise to her. I told her I would always take care of you and the boys, no matter what may come to pass. I…” she took a shuddering breath, biting down on the inside of her cheek to maintain her composure, “I feel as though I have failed her.”

She gasped as she he pulled her more snugly against him and tucked beneath his chin. He was so very warm, and his arms still held the strength befitting the Shield of Faerghus. He’d not grown frail or lax in the years since their last war with Sreng, and it gave her an immeasurable amount of comfort. She squeezed him and took a deep, shaky breath. It was wonderful to know that he was there and still as solid as he ever was. 

“You have failed no one. It isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault,” he murmured. She could feel his breath turning ragged against the side of her face, his voice becoming a watery wheeze as he spoke. 

“I know. I know that I could not have stopped it, but it doesn’t change that one of her children, one of my children, has been killed.” They’d avoided saying exactly what they were grieving. They’d spoken in vague terms all day, trying desperately to avoid the words that needed saying most. Glenn was dead. Glenn was dead. Glenn was dead. 

The first tears fell hot and salty against her lips, and she hiccupped pathetically in the quiet room. Rodrigue’s shoulders shook a moment as he watched her cry, but soon he too was weeping quietly. The louder she cried, the weaker she felt. They sank down onto the rug together, still clinging to each other as drowning people to a raft. His hands bunched up her mantle, and hers fisted in his robes as they swayed together on the spot. Her head ached and her eyes burned, but she continued to heave and gasp against his shoulder. 

They settled slowly, their crying becoming only sniffles and quiet hiccups after a while. She felt thoroughly exhausted, and allowed herself to sag against him, knowing she could trust him to at least hold her steady. She could ask no more of him. She jolted as she felt his hand stroking her hair, but resigned herself to it. He was gentle and there was nothing patronizing in it. She occupied herself instead with the solid thump of his heart beneath her ear, and the quiet rushing of his breath. There was no silver lining, no bright spot of hope in it, but the knowledge that she wasn’t alone in her loss was more comforting than any useless platitudes could ever be. 

“I had no idea you felt so strongly about them,” Rodrigue whispered. His voice was hoarse and watery. 

“How could I not? I raised them. I love them. I am not so presumptuous to assume that the feelings are mutual, nor do I expect to be seen as their mother, but my love for them is no less genuine for it.” 

“I am certain they are of the same mind… I am. I can scarcely fathom this family without you in it.” 

Her breath caught in her throat, her fingers tightening their grip on his clothes. She had been there for every important moment. She had seen their first steps, heard their first words, kissed their cuts and minded their fevers. She had done it all because she had made a promise; it was expected. It was her place. She had never once hoped that she was any more part of their family than a scullery maid. But she had wanted to be. 

She was an old maid now, far past her prime. Too old for children of her own, too old to be a wife. She had wasted the best years of her life living in the shadow of a dead woman, loving those that were not hers. Never had she thought they could love her in return, because that was not her place. She held her breath as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. 

“It gladdens my heart to know that, Milord.” 

“Just Rodrigue, Rowena. We’ve known each other a very long time.” 

His breath was warm and smelled of whiskey and something sweet. Perhaps he’d had tea before she’d come, she couldn’t say. He smelled of tobacco and bergamot, as he so often did. Perhaps it was wrong of her, but she couldn’t help herself. He was there, and he was warm, and they both hurt for the same reasons. She leaned towards him, watching his face as she pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. She felt him tense and heard the quick intake of breath, but he pulled her closer instead of pushing her away. 

His lips were warm and smooth, and he tasted of honey and bourbon. He sighed against her lips as though she were soothing some kind of old ache, so she pressed herself closer. He cupped her cheek, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Kissing him felt good. It felt right. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled when he pulled back. She rubbed at her face, but he caught her hands in both of his, his smile gentle. It didn’t quite touch his eyes. 

“There is nothing to be sorry for… I’m not. Come. Let’s turn in for the night, we’re both tired. We’ll… deal with all this in the morning.” He pulled them both to their feet and cradled her arm in the crook of his own. It was strange to be so close to him after so long, but she wouldn’t step away now. Not unless he wanted her to. She hoped that he would never ask it of her.

Their son—their pride—was dead. They had no choice but to face that. There was nothing either of them could do, and nothing short of necromancy could bring him back to them; but if they faced it together, then they could overcome the grief and guilt one day. They could show Felix how to move forward. They could be a family and do as families do in times of trouble. That alone made the loss a pain she could withstand.

“Are you tired?” he asked. 

“Yes. Are you?” 

He nodded and struggled to his feet, his knees cracking as he straightened. She took his hand and allowed him to haul her to her feet. He cradled her arm in his and they set off together, neither sparing the letter—that awful thing—a glance as they made their way towards the door. They would deal with it and all that came with it tomorrow, when the sun was up. The work could wait. Tonight was for them.


End file.
